


footsteps through snow (lead me to you)

by renecdote



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst With A Bittersweet Ending, Crying, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hugs, Snow, Young Bruce, alfred is a good dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 17:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16268537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: Bruce worries Alfred when he goes out alone in the snow to visit his parents' graves.





	footsteps through snow (lead me to you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [androbeaurepaire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/androbeaurepaire/gifts).



> Butlerdad feels and adorable art made this happen.

The cold seeps through Bruce’s shoes to numb his toes. He trudges through snow almost as deep as his knees, still falling thick and fast from the grey sky. Wind worms its way beneath his scarf and up his sleeves, chilling his body before the brisk walk up the hill can warm him. It stings at his eyes, one puffy and half-closed, painted in vivid, guiltless black and blue from a fight he didn’t win.

The Manor looms grand through the white fog choking the air. Bruce quickens his pace, eager to get out of the cold. He’s not sure exactly how long he was down by his parents’ graves but it was long enough that the winter chill has settled deep in his bones. He hopes Alfred has the kettle full, ready for an afternoon cup of tea. Maybe some warm biscuits just out of the oven as well.

The stone pavers out the front are slippery from melted snow and ice. Bruce skids the last few inches along the stoop and grabs the ornate doorknob to stop himself from falling. He stomps his boots on the mat to try get some of the mud and snow off before going inside. The wind snatches the door out of his hand and slams it shut with a bang that echoes through the house. Bruce cringes; Alfred hates it when he slams doors. 

"Bruce?" The call precedes Alfred appearing in the parlour from the direction of the kitchen. "Oh thank goodness."

A second later Bruce is being swept up into a hug. He squeaks in surprise, the sound muffled against Alfred's chest. "I'm wet," he protests half-heartedly, but Alfred's arms only tighten around him. 

"Don't you ever do that again," the butler scolds. The words are softened by the way he cradles the back of Bruce's head and presses a firm kiss to the top of his head. “I’ve been searching for you for an hour, young man. I thought you'd run away, or were lost, or lying somewhere out there  _ hurt _ ."

Bruce brings his hands up to clutch at the back of Alfred's vest. His throat feels tight. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, "I just.... I didn't want you to be sad."

Alfred pulls back just far enough that he can look Bruce in the eye. Down on one knee, he's only an inch or two taller than Bruce's height. Bruce lowers his gaze to stare at Alfred's tie pin, eyes feeling hot and watery, but Alfred nudges his chin up. 

"What on earth are you talking about, Master Bruce? Did you not think running off alone during a snowstorm might make me upset?”

His face is so open, his tone so soft. The opposite of cold, hard granite. Bruce's lip trembles. He surges forward, pressing his face against Alfred's shoulder to hide the tears as they bubble over and cascade down his cold cheeks. He feels like he's drowning in them, struggling to suck in air before his lungs turn his breaths into sobs. He didn't cry like this while he stood over his parents' graves. He felt almost hollow then, like his chest was a cave carved out of limestone by a lifetime of grief. Funny how it's only been a month but it feels like forever.

"Shh," Alfred murmurs. His hand is warm and comforting as it rubs up and down Bruce's spine. "It's alright, lad, you're not in trouble. I was just worried, I'm sorry."

Bruce shakes his head, too choked up to find the words to tell Alfred that's not why he's crying. He hadn't meant to worry Alfred. The butler went with him the first time he visited his parents graves, freshly covered with new grass a shade too bright compared to the faded colours of winter around it. Bruce had been thankful for the hand wrapped tightly around his own, for the steady presence at his shoulder as he knelt to place flowers in front of each headstone.

He'd found himself lost though, like a ship adrift without an anchor or a compass, when he turned back and found Alfred wiping his eyes with a handkerchief. He hadn't known what to say so he hadn't said anything. They'd gone back to the house and Alfred had washed the tear tracks from his face. He'd boiled the kettle and poured tea and Bruce had nibbled on a madeleines while he tried desperately to think of something happy to talk about. It was hard when he didn't feel very happy himself. Usually Alfred was the one who tried to make him feel better when he was sad.

"I didn't want you to be sad," Bruce repeats when his tears taper off. He sniffles and before he can wipe an arm across his nose, a handkerchief is being pressed into his hand. It’s light blue with embroidered edging and a single violet flower in one corner. It’s the same handkerchief Alfred had wiped his tears with in the cemetery last time. A few more silent tears race down Bruce’s cheeks.

“Why didn’t you want me to sad?” Alfred asks. His fingers are warm as they brush some of the hair out of Bruce’s eyes and tuck it behind his ears.

Bruce uses wiping his eyes as an excuse not to look up the butler. “I went to see my parents,” he says. “If I told you, you would have come and then you would have been sad again.”

Alfred is silent for a long moment, long enough that Bruce starts to regret telling the truth, then he pulls Bruce back against his chest. “My dear boy…” he murmurs, then huffs a teary laugh. “I thought it was my job to take care of you not the other way round.”

“I-”

Alfred doesn’t let him interrupt. “No more running off alone, alright? You tell me when you want to visit your parents, even if you think it will make me sad.”

Bruce bites his lip and nods. “Okay,” he says, only a little bit reluctantly. He pulls back from the hug and Alfred lets him go.

“How about a spot of tea?” Alfred asks. His knees crack as he stands.

Bruce smiles. “Tea would be nice.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed the fic, comments and kudos are much appreciated :) You can also find me on tumblr [here](http://tantalum-cobalt.tumblr.com).


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